And Sherlock Makes Three
by wendymarlowe
Summary: When John finds out Greg has sworn off women following his divorce, he issues Greg Lestrade a drunken invitation to come over and fool around. Sherlock tries to deduce the identity of John's "date." He's wrong. And when he's invited to stick around, he's also intrigued by the possibilities . . .
1. Chapter 1

Greg growled moodily into his pint. "So this divorce has pretty much put me off women entirely," he grumbled.

"It's final, then?" John asked.

"As of three yesterday afternoon. Congratulations to me."

"Cheers, mate." John tipped his glass in a sarcastic salute. "Swearing off sex entirely, then, or just women?"

Greg sputtered, caught in the act of taking another sip. "Been a while for me either way, hasn't it. Not like the wife - _ex_-wife - was particularly amenable."

John put down his glass and eyed the detective with interest. "You're into blokes too, then?"

A shrug. "Like I said, it's been a while," Greg answered. "But been a few, yeah."

John snorted. "Same here. Not since my time at St. Barts, honestly, and that keeps getting farther and farther back in the past."

Greg frowned. "But I assumed you and Sherlock . . ."

"Yeah, _everyone_ assumes me and Sherlock. Look, have you ever seen Sherlock be sexual? About _anything?_"

Greg thought a moment. "No, actually. Until you came along, I always assumed - well, I assumed he was asexual. Or just very, very naive."

"Yeah, no. About a month after I moved in we had to have a discussion about which 'personal toys' were, and were not, appropriate to leave lying around the flat." John took another drink. "But I've never seen him express any sexual interest in another human being, male or female, and I never wanted to press. Not worth making things -" - he flailed his wrist, searching futilely for the right gesture - "- awkward."

"Pity. He'd look marvelous starkers."

Now it was John's turn to sputter into his drink.

"Think about it!" Greg insisted. "He's got incredibly long legs, you know, and those fingers . . ." He shivered, then frowned moodily at the beer. "Okay, now I know I'm a bit pissed."

"A bit." John shifted in his chair. "Bloody well thanks for that image, by the way. I thought I was doing rather well putting it out of my mind, after seeing him half-naked at Buckingham Palace -"

"Yeah, heard about that. Does he look as good in half a sheet as it seems like he would?"

"Better," John answered glumly. "Took me weeks for my heart to stop pounding whenever I heard him wander from his shower back to his room - he always does it without a stitch on."

Both men drank in silence for a few minutes.

John broke it first. "You know . . . you should come over on Friday. Pick up some takeaway and we can fool around. Doesn't have to be anything serious, you know, but it's been ages since I've had some good cock in my mouth and I rather fancy I'd like yours." He felt the blush threatening his cheeks and he looked down, letting out a self-conscious laugh. "Or maybe I'm more drunk than I thought. Just an idea."

"That sounds . . ." Greg's voice was a bit strangled. "Yeah. Sounds perfect. Six-thirty?"

* * *

Friday morning, John could hardly think about anything else. He was almost out the door before he got a look - a really good _look_ - at the state of the flat, as if he were seeing it through Greg's eyes.

"Sherlock, you need to do something about the kitchen," he called.

"The kitchen's fine," Sherlock called back from somewhere in his room.

"I mean it," John insisted. "I've got a date coming over tonight and I'm going to throw out every single one of your experiments if they're still there when I get back from the surgery."

Sherlock appeared in his bedroom doorway as if by magic, hair rumpled and dressing gown askew. "You've got a date coming _here?_"

"Yeah, well, about time, isn't it? Clean the kitchen, Sherlock. I know you're not on a case." And John left.

* * *

When he finally got a chance to check his phone at lunch, there were no fewer than twenty-seven texts from Sherlock.

_9:02 AM: Who is she? SH_

_9:05 AM: Do I know her? SH_

_9:06 AM: You never bring women back to the flat, so you must be v. sure of your chances tonight. SH_

_9:15: John? SH_

_9:26: A quick shag, then. Not someone from work. SH_

_9:48: You'd never jeopardize your job at the surgery for a quick shag. She must be pretty. SH_

_9:49: And a redhead. You have a thing for redheads. SH_

_10:02: How do you know she wouldn't like my experiments? SH_

_10:09: Nothing illegal in the kitchen right now anyway. SH_

_10:22: I expect you'll want me to put away my experiments in the bathroom and living room too? SH_

_10:25: Not that I'm volunteering. SH_

_10:58: Can't deduce anything on this little data, John. SH_

_10:59: But I'm going to try if you don't start answering your phone. SH_

_11:03: John? SH_

_11:10: Fine. I'll figure it out, just watch. SH_

_11:11: Since you won't shag a co-worker and you don't date patients, you must have met her Wed. at the pub when you went for a 'pint' with Lestrade. SH_

_11:12: Was more than a pint, by the way - you were pretty legless when you got back. SH_

_11:15: Not going to complain about me deducing you? Fine. SH_

_11:16: Redhead at the pub, smallish chest, big eyes, touch too much makeup. Your type, in other words. SH_

_11:17: Took you so long to find the courage to ask her that you ended up blotto before chatting her up. SH_

_11:18: That's why you didn't just shag there in the bathroom hallway. SH_

_11:20: Not that you can't get it up when pissed. Just that you usually insist on consent being done sober. SH_

_11:21: V. smart, although seems to me to defeat the purpose of meeting women at pubs. SH_

_11:42: Still nothing? John? SH_

_11:43: You're nearly out of condoms, you know. Just one left in your bedside drawer & one in your wallet. SH_

_11:44: If you're stopping to pick some up on the way home, bring nicotine patches. I'm running low. SH_

_11:48: BORED. Answer your texts! SH_

John scrolled through them all as he munched on his sandwich, having more than a little fun with this. Sherlock claimed he never guessed when he was "deducing" - now John had proof positive that wasn't true. In writing. He finished his sandwich and sent back a single text:

_12:38: You're guessing. Clean the damned kitchen._

It only encouraged Sherlock, of course, prompting a flood of responses:

_12:39: Not guessing. Deducing. You haven't told me if I'm right or not. SH_

_12:40: I did some reading, John. There's a word for this. SH_

_12:40: Pretty sure I'm being 'sexiled.' SH_

_12:40: What time do you need me out by? SH_

_12: 41: Do we need to establish a code? SH_

_12:41: Plan to hang a sock on the door? SH_

John sighed and tossed the remains of his lunch.

_12:41: Not sexiled. Not kicking you out. Just having a date over so CLEAN THE DAMNED KITCHEN._

And he turned off his phone for the remainder of the afternoon.

* * *

When John got home that evening, he was not entirely surprised to find the mess had barely been touched. There was a grudgingly clear spot on one side of the kitchen table, two of the chairs had been cleared of debris, and nothing was actively rotting as far as John could smell. It was still far from "clean," though, by any stretch of the imagination. John sighed and went to root through the cupboard for the largest garbage bags he could find.

Decluttering took ages, but the promise of having the counters and refrigerator detoxified for the first time John could remember was a powerful motivator. He was undoubtedly upsetting a dozen of Sherlock's "experiments" in the process, but - despite Greg's profession - John felt confident in his assumption that Greg would not find fermented ears to be a valuable part of a seductive atmosphere. He was rather less confident in assuming anything of the sort about Sherlock.

Who was, predictably, sulking in the living room for the majority of the time John was cleaning. A lot of flopping dramatically on the sofa and sighing, but Sherlock had yet to acknowledge John had even gotten home. John finally left the kitchen to go confront him.

"You going to do that all evening, Sherlock?"

The detective rolled his head languidly, eyeing John without moving a muscle from his prone position sprawled over the sofa cushions with one long leg thrown across the back. "Perhaps. Need me to leave yet?"

"I need you to move your microscope and your other equipment. I have no problem throwing out pig intestines and rotting ears and other biological products, but I'm hoping the loss of your microscope might possibly induce you to, you know, _help._"

"She's your date. You clean."

"It's _our_ flat, Sherlock. And I am cleaning. Fine, I'll throw it all out." John turned his back on his flatmate and started collecting microscope slides.

He was shouldered aside a moment later. Sherlock scooped up the microscope and slides, without making eye contact, and took them to disappear somewhere in his bedroom, returning a moment later with a large enough box to pack the rest of the equipment with minimal care and squirrel it away to safety. John took the rare opportunity to actually wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen. Not much to be done about the rest of the flat, honestly, but at least the room where they planned to eat was no longer potentially toxic.

"I'm not kicking you out, you know," John announced once the kitchen was passable. "All we actually planned is dinner, and you're welcome to stay and socialize."

Sherlock rolled his eyes hard enough for John to hear him even with his back turned. "Since when have I ever been one for socializing?" He stilled suddenly, then whirled and pinned John with an eerily perceptive look. "And since when have you ever _encouraged_ me to meet one of your dates? You're usually complaining about me texting you and inviting you on cases and ruining the evening."

John knew he should come clean about Greg's identity, but he was enjoying seeing Sherlock wrestle with a deduction he couldn't quite figure out. "Maybe it's someone you know," he suggested.

Sherlock looked intrigued. "I don't believe I know any redheads who would voluntarily spend additional time in my company. So something in my deduction is wrong."

"Oh yes. Definitely." John smiled blandly, his best copy of Sherlock's annoyingly polite mask. "Work out which part yet?"

"I . . ." Sherlock started pacing in a tight line from the sofa to the desk, fingers tracing his angular face as he thought. "You do plan to shag tonight, right?"

"That would be my preference, yes. Assuming all goes well."

"Not someone from the surgery."

"No." John fought to hide his amusement. Sherlock noticed, of course, but obviously couldn't decipher the reason . . .

"At least passably pretty, I assume?"

John snorted. "Hardly a subjective data point, don't you think?"

"Redhead?"

"No."

"You did meet her at the pub on Wednesday, though?"

John was saved from answering by the knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson called out a muffled greeting, then there were (clearly male) footsteps on the stairs, and then . . .

"Hullo," called Greg as he appeared in the doorway. "I hope Chinese is okay. Didn't know whether you planned to stick around for the fun tonight, Sherlock, but I brought enough for all three of us anyway."

And John had the pleasure of seeing Sherlock completely speechless for the first time in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

"So how do we do this?" Greg set the bags of food down on the coffee table. And suddenly seemed to catch sight of Sherlock's expression. His gaze flicked from Sherlock to John. "I mean, it's okay if you changed your mind, although I hoped even if you did we could still just enjoy dinner -"

"It's fine," John said. "Come on into the kitchen - Sherlock and I cleaned up a bit, so it should be safe to have food in there now."

Greg blinked. "_Sherlock_ cleaned?"

Sherlock's poleaxed expression shifted into a scowl, but John saw that particular look often enough to know that Sherlock wasn't actually hurt. "He cleaned enough to keep me from tossing his lab equipment in the rubbish bin," John admitted. He scooped up one of the bags and started unloading it onto the kitchen counter. "Oh, this smells heavenly. Got a good variety, I see."

"Yeah, well, didn't know what you'd like, so . . ." Greg got as far as the doorway and leaned awkwardly against the frame. His face was red. "I've gotta admit, I really don't know what to expect here, I haven't exactly done this before."

"Done what, exactly?" came Sherlock's voice from the living room.

Greg turned around to assess Sherlock, then back to watch John's reaction, clearly uncomfortable being literally stuck between the two of them. John intervened.

"It's just as you deduced, Sherlock - we did meet up Wednesday night at the pub, we did get rather thoroughly drunk before I propositioned him, and we did arrange to meet here tonight rather than pop off to have a goer in the loo." John got three plates out of the cupboard and set them out at the table, then transferred the plethora of food over as well. "You were wrong about Greg's hair color, mammary endowments, and affinity for makeup. Oh, and his gender, obviously. You got the rest right, though." He dug out silverware and held out a fork to Greg, handle-first. "As for how we do this - first, we eat."

Dinner conversation was stilted, at first, but John supposed that was only to be expected. Sherlock approached the table with a clear sense of trepidation, allowing himself only the barest minimum of food necessary to actually count as "sharing a meal," and being insanely picky about each dish to boot. Greg was more catholic in his appetite, sampling a little bit of everything - but then it would make sense that he'd only ordered dishes he liked, John realized. And since everything turned out to be good, John worked his way through most of the dishes as well.

John and Greg chatted half-heartedly about the weather, their most recent case (Sherlock had solved it in less than an hour, much to his disgust), and were just starting on the likelihood of an upcoming Tube shutdown when Sherlock made an irritated noise and put down his fork.

"I'm still stuck on the fact that neither of you are gay," he said.

Greg caught John's eye from across the table, and suddenly the awkward tension in the room was gone and John and Greg were both slumped over, snickering.

"Oh, Sherlock," Greg squeezed out from between little bursts of giggles. "We're both bisexual. As you should have figured, considering John's habit of dating _women_ and the fact that I just divorced one myself."

"But -"

"Face it," John said. "Your gaydar sucks. Always has."

Sherlock looked offended. "What you call 'gaydar' is nothing more than a series of deductions, usually done subconsciously. I excel -"

"You excel at deducing motivations and criminal behavior," Greg said. "You do suck at figuring out people's orientation unless they smack you in the face with it."

John smiled, trying to take the sting out of what had to be a rude awakening for his flatmate. "The only person I've known you to deduce as 'gay' was Moriarty, and that was only because he planted the clues for you to find. You've never even picked up on your own brother, for God's sake -"

Sherlock went so still John felt the urge to check his breathing. "Mycroft is gay?" he asked in a whisper.

"Not that he's said as much, but . . . yeah, I think he is," John said. "Ninety percent certain, anyway. You really never noticed?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Lestrade, though - you've been married for -"

"I _was_ married," Greg corrected. "But we finally signed the divorce papers earlier this week." He took another bite of his egg roll and shot Sherlock a lopsided smile. "Given the circumstances tonight, though, do you think you could maybe work your way up to calling me Greg?"

Sherlock stood abruptly. "My apologies - I can't - I just -"

And he retreated to the safety of his bedroom.

John watched him leave, heard the lock click as Sherlock barricaded himself in, and sighed. "Sorry about that - I purposely didn't tell him it was you, because I didn't want him to have time to work up a childish tantrum before you got here. I suppose we should take it as a good sign that he's staying in the flat, at least."

Greg shrugged. "I'm not going to lie, I really would love to see him starkers. And I've never done, err, _anything_ really, with two blokes at once. But I've also spent the last two days thinking about you - this - tonight - and honestly, John, I'm happy to leave Sherlock's participation up to him. I don't anticipate being disappointed one way or the other."

That was . . . good to hear, John supposed. "I may have been doing some fantasizing too, I guess. About you and about him. But more about you, because you're not the one who's been storming around the flat in a giant snit because his last case was 'too easy.' So yeah, let's do this with or without him." John paused, then admitted, "I was a bit worried you'd change your mind."

"Not a chance." Greg favored him with a huge grin. "Although I suppose . . . be good to know we're on the same page before we start, right? I mean, I know I'm clean and it's not like I don't trust you, but condoms are kind of a thing for me if we're going to - you know." He looked down. "Or they were, back when I actually had a shot at sex occasionally."

"No, that's good. I was kind of thinking . . ." _God, this was much harder to say out loud than it was in his head_. "Let's not rush ahead of ourselves tonight, all right? Stick with oral and manual and whatnot for right now?" John could feel his face getting warm. It's not like he had never negotiated with a partner before - hell, he practically insisted on it - but somehow it was just _different_ this time. Maybe because he wanted this to be more than a one-time thing. "I was kind of hoping that we could do this more often and we could work our way up. If we both want to. You know, after." _Christ._

But Greg was nodding. "Yeah, that's - that's good. Let's do that." He set his fork back down on his completely cleaned plate. "Put away the food first?"

It only took a minute to get the dishes rinsed and all the leftovers stuck in the (newly-cleaned - John was immensely relieved to not have to explain the fermenting ears) fridge. He and Greg wandered back out into the living room, then stood and looked at each other awkwardly for a few moments. One of them had to make the first move, and Greg didn't seem inclined, so John figured it would have to be him.

"Here. On the sofa." John sat in the middle and patted the cushion next to him. Greg hesitated only a split-second before coming over and sitting down, so close their knees touched. Definitely closer than they'd ever been before, and not something that could be explained away as purely incidental contact.

"So."

"So," John answered. And then figured the hell with it, and reached out to pull Greg to him.

The inspector made a surprised little sound, but didn't resist the pressure of John's hand against the back of his skull. John used the angle to tilt Greg's head just the right way and leaned forward to press their lips together in an inquisitive kiss. Greg pressed back, a tentative reaction at first, but after a few moments he loosened up and _God we're really doing this_ and it turned out he was actually a pretty decent kisser. His tongue probed between John's lips, John opened for the intrusion, and swiftly amended his assessment to _pretty damn good kisser, actually_.

They kept it like that for several minutes, not touching except for their mouths and John's hand on the nape of Greg's neck and the barest hint of a touch where their knees brushed each other's. John realized he had really missed this - missed kissing a bloke, missed the smell of _man_ instead of the complicated combination of perfume and shampoo and hand cream and hairspray and who knows what else that women all tended to load themselves up with.

"Good?" Greg mumbled against his lips.

"Good," John agreed.

"Mmmm." And Greg reached up to twine his fingers around the side of John's head, and he started layering his kisses downward until he was nibbling at the side of John's neck and John was staring fuzzily into the distance with his head cocked sideways and trying not to shiver. Greg was good at noticing details, as it turned out (which shouldn't have surprised John - the inspector was the only one at Scotland Yard whom Sherlock didn't despise, after all), which manifested as a disturbingly accurate ability to suss out the exact placement and pressure it took to make John really squirm. It was marvelous.

And not quite enough. "Can I take your shirt off?" John asked, in a breathier tone than he had intended.

"You get yours; I'll get mine."

And they pulled apart long enough for John to pull his jumper over his head and to get half the buttons on his shirt undone before Greg was tossing his own button-down aside and tugging the tails of John's shirt out from the hem of his trousers. John sat back, content to let Greg finish the job. It was a comfortable kind of silence, both of them concentrating on taking in each little thing but without the awkwardness of earlier in the evening. Come hell or high water, _somebody_ was getting off tonight, and John fervently hoped it would be both of them. Hopefully more than once.

Greg didn't even flinch at the sight of John's scarred shoulder, a fact John shouldn't have been so relieved by but was anyway. Not everyone commented, of course, but enough women had reacted - if only to freeze and then carefully avoid touching him there - that John was a bit self-conscious about the damage.

Not so much about the rest of himself, though. John wasn't a vain man, but he knew he was more fit than most for his age and his proportions were average enough to not surprise anyone for good or for bad. Greg, as it turned out, was about the same - moderate amount of (in his case, silver) hair dusted across his chest, the same muscular build hidden under his shirt, the same little bit of extra fat over the belly. Comfortable. John let his gaze drift down and wondered what Greg's cock would look like. Would taste like. He felt himself get a bit harder at the thought.

They were both running their hands over each other's bodies, gentle touches as they each took a moment to explore the other. It really _had_ been a long time since he'd been with a man, John realized. The novelty of it ramped his arousal up another notch - regardless of his ability to appreciate the charms of both sexes, John would probably always prefer feeling those larger, rougher fingers on his own skin. And from the way Greg was responding to his touch, he seemed to feel the same way.

"I did promise to suck you off, didn't I?" John asked quietly. And was rewarded by a hitch in Greg's breathing.

"I seem to recall that, yes," the inspector answered. "Still want to?"

"_God_ yes." John reached for Greg's zipper.

"Is it really okay if I stay and watch?"

John and Greg both jerked their heads up, startled to see Sherlock standing not two yards away.

"It's okay if you say no," Sherlock continued. "But from what you said earlier, it sounded like . . ."

"Of course we want you here," said Greg with an air of confusion. "We were hoping you'd come out and join us."

John shot Sherlock an apologetic smile. "I thought you might have been offended, when you stormed off to your room like that. Or at least," he amended, "I thought you were avoiding me. Us. We were just getting to the fun part."

"I see that." Sherlock still looked like he was expecting to be kicked out of the flat at any moment, but he slowly lowered himself into the armchair and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees.

"You sure you want to just watch?" Greg asked. "You don't have to, you know."

Sherlock's eyes danced over both John and Greg's bare chests, but he didn't move.

"Oh, bollocks." John extricated himself from the sofa and went to kneel in front of Sherlock. He reached out to trace those gorgeously high cheekbones with his fingertips, then caught Sherlock's face between his hands - giving him plenty of time to retreat if he wanted - and brought his lips down on his flatmate's. Sherlock didn't move at all, a perfectly frozen statue of marble skin and those vividly piercing eyes - but then after a moment he let out a whimper and eventually moaned a little into the kiss. John kept his touch as light as he could, trying to tease out the whatever-it-was that held Sherlock back from wanting to join them.

It was Sherlock who pulled back first. Sherlock, who was practically trembling, who seemed to be capable of doing nothing more than staring dazedly at John and breathing in tiny little pants.

"Hey, are we okay?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock dropped his head down to his chest and nodded. "Okay," he echoed. "I . . . yeah. Better than I pictured it."

John was conscious of Greg watching patiently from the sofa, but this was important to get right. He ran a fingertip under Sherlock's chin and brought his head up so he could make eye contact. "You've been picturing kissing me?"

"Kissing anyone." Sherlock licked his lips and suddenly looked a bit lost. "I've . . . never really done that before."

Greg shifted his weight in his seat. "Never kissed anyone at all?"

Sherlock's refusal to meet John's gaze was all the answer he needed to give.

"Christ." John kept his hand against Sherlock's jaw, massaging his skin gently. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I assumed, after that whole big blow-up we had when I first moved in, about your toys -"

"It's fine." Sherlock squirmed a bit, but didn't pull away from John's touch. "My theoretical knowledge is significantly above the average, I assure you, even if I've never actually put it into practice."

"So this is lack of practical experience, not the result of a bad one." _Please let it not be rape, not abuse -_

But Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. I never saw the point in letting any of my biological drives be under someone else's control."

Greg made a noise which sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh. Sherlock's expression immediately shuttered, but John leaned forward and planted another quick kiss on his lips and Sherlock refocused on him.

"Sorry," Greg said, and he sounded sincere. "It's just - that sounded so quintessentially _you_. I should have guessed."

"What, that nobody's ever wanted to shag me?" Sherlock's eyes darted angrily from John to the inspector and back again. "I just never bothered - I can orgasm on my own. But I'll have you know it's not a question of availability."

"We know, Sherlock," John said. "We've seen the effect you have on people." He licked his lips. "Hell, we were talking at the pub about how we've both _felt_ that effect you have on us. It's why we were both hoping you'd want to stay tonight. You do still want to stay, don't you?"

Sherlock gave him that one-arched-eyebrow _how-can-you-really-be-this-dense_ look. "Yes, John."

"Good." John let his hands drift upward to tuck an errant curl away of Sherlock's face. "And you want to just watch? Or can we tempt you to do more?"

John felt motion at his back, and then Greg was standing there behind him with one hand in John's hair and one hand lightly combing through Sherlock's. "It's fine either way," Greg said in an unconvincingly bright tone, "but I promise it will be more fun if you join in."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I . . ."

John took the opportunity to lean forward and kiss him again, more thoroughly this time. Sherlock hesitated only a second before opening his mouth and allowing John's tongue inside to explore. He tasted like garlic and soy sauce from dinner and something else unique, a flavor John couldn't identify but would have known at once was just _Sherlock_. John kept up his exploration only for a short while - Greg was being remarkably patient, content to just run his fingers through their hair - but when he drew back, Sherlock's pupils were dilated wide.

"This is going to be the best experiment you've ever done," John promised him. "Let us show you the advantages two partners have over the limitations of your own hand."

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Yes, all right."

John looked up to catch Greg's eye, and a silent conversation passed between them.

_Mind if we delay that blowjob a bit?_ John's look said.

_Not at all,_ Greg's replied._ I'm not going to turn this chance down. Let's blow his mind._

John thought it sounded like a marvelous idea.


	3. Chapter 3

"Right, then. Upstairs. More space to maneuver in my room." John dragged himself to his feet and brushed a kiss against Greg's lips in passing. Sherlock still looked a bit dazed, but he was watching the exchange with interest. He didn't get up until John had already led Greg halfway up the stairs.

John paused inside his bedroom doorway, assessing. His bed wasn't big enough for three men to sleep side-by-side, but it would do for their purposes tonight, and it would be infinitely more comfortable than the sofa. And - from the handful of times John had actually seen the inside of Sherlock's bedroom - John's room also had significantly fewer biohazards, sharp blades tossed negligently in piles of dirty laundry, and dissected specimens as wall art.

Greg came up behind him and gently rested his hands on John's bare waist as he surveyed the room. "It suits you," he declared after a moment. "Everything's neat and practical and it's obvious you don't tolerate clutter. God knows how you tolerate Sherlock."

"Because he's addicted to danger and excitement, and I often provide both," came the answer from behind them.

"Only through the cases I allow you to consult on," Greg corrected, and Sherlock made a contemptuous noise.

This was going to veer from erotic to decidedly un-sexy rather quickly if John didn't do something. "Sherlock, on your back on the bed," he ordered, moving away from the door and shucking his shoes and socks. Greg did the same.

Sherlock eyed them both, as if he wasn't entirely sure whether he approved of taking orders from John or not, but he stalked the rest of the way into the room and complied. He was still fully clothed, but the slight nervousness in the lines of his body (something John wouldn't have noticed in anyone except Sherlock) kept him from looking as poised and dignified as normal. He was still trying to be, though, and that really needed to stop. Now. John reached out to catch Greg's hand and squeeze it, willing the detective to let John take the lead.

"I have a feeling I will need to lay out some rules for you," John announced, coming to stand at the side of the bed. Greg took the hint and moved into a position on the other side, the effect being John and Greg both looming over Sherlock as he lay flat between them. "The first rule is, communication is good - if you want something to stop, say stop. If you want one or both of us to slow down, say so. If something feels particularly good or bad, speak up. Acceptable?"

Sherlock blinked at him. "Yes, although your lecture is unnecessary."

"Just covering our bases," John said. "Second rule: no deducing in bed. No picking apart assumed former partners, no obsessing over how the scar on my foot proves I fell off my bike at age eight, none of that."

"I've seen you barefoot before, John. You don't have a scar on your foot."

"Nevertheless."

Sherlock's eyebrows inched closer together. "I don't know that I can turn it off, not like that."

Greg grinned. "Oh, we can help."

"Yes, well, don't deduce out loud, at any rate," John said. "Third rule: no arguing with me."

"But John -"

"That's arguing, Sherlock. I need you to acknowledge that despite your _vast_ theoretical experience, Greg and I have actually both done this before and it's highly likely we may have pertinent information you don't. This will be a lot more fun for everyone if we don't have to argue our points with you before you deign to let us show you something. Agreed?"

Sherlock closed his mouth and nodded. "Agreed." His eyes darted from John to Greg and back again. "Can we fuck now?"

Greg smirked, but John was the one who answered. "You've got too many clothes on for that."

Sherlock's hand immediately went to the buttons on his shirt, but Greg leaned over and caught it, pressing the arm back into the mattress at Sherlock's side. "Let me."

It was interesting, undressing Sherlock. Greg unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs, trailing a finger down each new inch of exposed skin, while John undid Sherlock's trousers and pants and shoes and slid everything off. Sherlock obligingly shimmied his hips and lifted his shoulders when necessary to divest himself of his clothing, but otherwise accepted the scrutiny with his usual infuriatingly self-assured calm.

Now John and Greg were still in their trousers, and Sherlock was delightfully nude and flat on his back in the bed. John had always been careful to never let himself really _look_ - even though the opportunity had presented itself once or twice - so he was damn well going to make up for it now. Sherlock was pale all over, except for his cock, which was long and lean just like the rest of him and was still growing under John's and Greg's combined gazes. Sherlock's chest was nearly hairless, John had seen that at Buckingham Palace with that damned towel, but the sparse covering of dark curls trailing up to the nest at Sherlock's groin was both novel and intriguing. John reached down and trailed a fingertip from Sherlock's knee up along his inner thigh, stopping right before he touched anything interesting. Sherlock twitched.

"Don't you have to be naked, too?" Sherlock asked, his voice somewhere between a whine and a plea.

"Not for this." And John let his whole palm rest on Sherlock's hip, rubbing small circles into the skin. In his peripheral vision, he saw Greg doing the same on Sherlock's bicep, then running his hand down lower to Sherlock's chest.

Greg cleared his throat. "There should be some kissing, I think," he said.

John immediately leaned over and pressed a kiss on the sensitive skin just inside Sherlock's hip where his hand had been only a moment before. Sherlock stiffened and inhaled sharply, then let out his breath in a long moan when Greg sealed his mouth over the detective's. Oh yes, Sherlock was definitely in good hands.

Sherlock's attention otherwise occupied, John was free to explore a bit more. He let his fingers drift aimlessly across Sherlock's lower body, dusting across his abdomen (the man was too damn thin; he really needed to eat more often) and down over his thighs to his knees and then back up again. There was not an ounce of extra fat on Sherlock's body, and John was envious for a moment before shaking off the thought and just marveling at the opportunity to see his flatmate naked and at least somewhat submissive. It was a heady feeling.

Speaking of which . . . John allowed his fingers to finally drift over Sherlock's bollocks and up higher, trailing along Sherlock's erection. Sherlock bucked his hips and groaned into Greg's mouth. John tried to keep his touch light, teasing, but it was hard with Sherlock squirming so much.

"Good?" John asked.

Sherlock mumbled something through the kiss and twisted his hands in the duvet.

"You can touch," John said. "Run your hands over Greg's chest the same way he's doing to yours. See how it feels."

Greg growled and shifted position, so he was practically lying across Sherlock on the bed. Their kiss turned wetter, deeper, and both of them started sliding their palms across each other like they were searching for a handhold. John kept up the light caresses, fondling Sherlock's erection with just-barely-there strokes. Sherlock's hips were writhing on their own now that his mind was otherwise occupied, and John was drooling just watching how those hips moved. The man was damn sexy, any way you looked at it, but he was _particularly_ hot when out of his mind with lust . . . John brought his free hand up between Greg's legs while he was busy kissing Sherlock, caressing him through his trousers, and was rewarded with Greg arching his back in blatant entreaty. John's mouth watered.

But this was about Sherlock, at least at first, so John reluctantly removed his hand from Greg's crotch and focused on Sherlock's instead. And decided he didn't _really_ have to wait to taste cock.

The first long lick was dry, dragging at John's tongue. Sherlock gasped and shuddered. John reached the tip and reversed direction, catching the warm skin between his lips and working his way back down over Sherlock's impressive length. He was vaguely aware of Greg drawing back and watching him as he worked, but the taste and feel of _Sherlock_ was just too damn good to not give his full attention. Sherlock was moaning aloud now, squirming and muttering under his breath, but John was content to ignore him as long as he didn't actually object. He didn't seem to.

Greg's touch on John's shoulder actually startled him a bit. John let go with a long, slow drag of his mouth, looking up to catch Greg's eye, but Greg was already lowering his front half down to the mattress. He reached over Sherlock's hips to grab John's head by the nape of the neck and pulled him into a sloppy kiss. "Together," he whispered when they broke apart, and dipped his head the last few inches to tease the side of Sherlock's cock.

John caught on quickly - he lowered his head to cover the other side. Their mouths met in the middle, a long, wet, sucking kiss with Sherlock's erection trapped between their lips. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock prop himself up on his elbows, bright eyes taking in the sight. He looked dazed and flushed and miracle of miracles, he wasn't trying to _deduce_ anything. John felt a little more proud of himself than he ought.

Had John thought Greg was a pretty good kisser? He upgraded his assessment again to _bloody brilliant_. The detective inspector had a seriously talented mouth. Sherlock was making little whimpering sounds now, tiny wordless pleas, but John was having way too much fun to have mercy on his flatmate. Kissing and blowjobs didn't seem like they'd mix all that well, but - in large part thanks to Greg's impressive oral skills - they apparently fit together perfectly. Greg was a bloody mind-reader, responding instantly when John wanted to work his way upward and tease the salty tip of Sherlock's cock, or when he wanted to stretch his mouth as wide as it would go and meet Greg's lips top and bottom while their tongues painted Sherlock's taut skin in between. Greg's hand found John's and they tangled their fingers together like horny teenagers as they worked in tandem to blow Sherlock's mind.

The end, when it came, was a surprise only to Sherlock. John knew it was coming from the way Sherlock's abdomen tensed, the way his balls drew up and tightened, the way he sucked in his breath and then stopped breathing entirely for a long moment before he came. John and Greg made eye contact at the last moment, then Greg let go of John's hand and wrapped his fingers around the base of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock was frozen in time for a few long seconds before shuddering and spilling himself in silky spurts across his stomach. John just caressed his thigh and watched, entranced by the sight of the normally repressed detective absolutely losing control. A blissed-out Sherlock was not a sight to be easily forgotten. Even afterwards, John and Greg both took a few moments to just observe and lock the memory away. Greg threw John a tiny smile, one John easily interpreted as _That was absolutely worth it and don't think I forgot about you sucking me off, but damn_. John wholeheartedly agreed.

Sherlock eventually moved again, though, just a little shifting of his hips, but it was enough to signal their little truce officially over. John climbed right across him on hands and knees and dragged Greg's legs around to hang off the side of the bed. "Your turn now," he growled.

Greg was quick to help get his trousers and pants off, until he was as naked as Sherlock. John couldn't keep his hands off - Greg was beautifully proportioned, lovely and thick and so bloody hard it was a wonder he hadn't come already. John slithered off the edge of the bed and tugged at Greg's knees, so he could crouch between them and nuzzle at Greg's cock without stretching. Greg leaned back, elbows braced on Sherlock's thighs, and let John explore.

Which John appreciated. He hadn't been with men all that often in the past, honestly, and never two close enough together to actually _compare_ the way he could here. Besides the obvious differences in proportions and coloring, Greg was very definitely more experienced in this. He barely twitched when John gave him an experimental lick, in comparison to Sherlock's exaggerated writhing.

Not that he wasn't interested, though - Greg fisted his hands in John's hair almost immediately. "I've been fantasizing about this for two bloody days," he admitted in a low tone.

John chuckled softly, letting his breath ghost across the heated skin. "I'll see if I can make it worth fantasizing about, then." And he leaned in to capture as much of Greg's cock as he could in one movement.

_"Oh fucking bloody Christ YES. Oh God."_ Greg let a long string of profanity flow from his lips as John licked and sucked, playing a bit with the sensations to draw it out. Greg liked his balls fondled, John found, as well as a random alternation between light little brushes of his tongue and full deep-throated suction. John thanked whatever saints were in charge of blow jobs that he had been given the opportunity to experience this evening - his own erection was hot and heavy inside his trousers, but it was surprisingly easy to compartmentalize that fact, to just concentrate on the taste of Greg's cock and the lovely sounds the detective inspector was making.

The sounds changed, a minute silence followed by a low moan. John looked up, mouth still around Greg's cock, and he was met with the sight of a thoroughly rumpled Sherlock propped up on one elbow, running his other hand over the small of Greg's back. Greg was arching into the touch and trying hard not to fall over flat on top of Sherlock's legs. Sherlock's eyes locked with John's, and there was a heat in them John could have sworn he'd never seen before.

John sped up his rhythm, but he kept his eyes alternating resolutely between Sherlock's and Greg's. Sherlock's were all scorching heat, while Greg's were nearly blank with bliss. John leaned down one last time, taking in as much as he possibly could, and that must have been enough because Greg was bucking and coming down his throat. John swallowed it all, then rose to his feet and pressed Greg backward in a sloppy kiss before scrunching onto the bed himself and propping his legs over Greg's while the detective was still busy collecting shards of himself from all around the room.

"You still have your trousers on," Sherlock commented.

"Brilliant observation."

"I can't suck on your cock unless you take them off."

John blinked at Sherlock, not entirely sure he had heard his flatmate right. "You don't have to, you know - we knew this was your first time, I'm not expecting -"

Greg shoulder-checked him, knocking John flat on the bed next to Sherlock. "Trousers off, John. You heard him." And he had John's trousers and pants off before John had a chance to argue.

Sherlock rolled gracefully up to his knees, allowing John more space on the bed. He and Greg pushed and prodded John's lower half until John was lying flat between them, being _studied._ John felt rather like one of their murder victims under the combined weight of the two men examining him. Neither was looking at his wounded shoulder - Greg's eyes were tracing over his chest and abdomen, while Sherlock's much less subtle gaze was fixed directly on his groin. If John hadn't been hard already, he would have gotten that way pretty damn fast.

"You'll teach me how to do this?" Sherlock reached out to stroke John's erection, but he was looking at Greg. "I want to - I've never -"

Greg nodded and added his own hand on top of Sherlock's. "Take your time - John's a patient man. Aren't you, John?"

John ground his teeth, but forced himself to bow his head in agreement. _Take your bloody time, Sherlock, take all the time you need, as long as you don't wait ONE BLOODY MINUTE longer than you have to . . ._

"Here, scoot down a bit." Greg shifted around, prodding John to shift his hips further down the bed, and insinuated himself between John and the headboard so John was reclining against his chest. It wasn't a position which would be comfortable long-term, but Greg's arms felt lovely around John's waist and John wasn't going to complain, not with the looks Sherlock and Greg were giving him and not while his cock was so bloody hard. "I'll stay up here," Greg told Sherlock, "and you can experiment to your heart's content down there. Just be gentle and take it slow."

"Not too slow," John countered. "Touch me, damn it, please."

And Sherlock did. His fingers traced John's length tentatively, then with more conviction. Greg let his own fingers play in time with Sherlock's exploration, tracing light patterns over John's chest and nipples and navel. The combined effect was incredible.

Sherlock made a thoughtful noise, then he dipped his head and licked a drop of precome off the head of John's cock. Greg chose that moment to latch on to the side of John's neck, just below his ear, and suck a wet kiss against John's tender skin. John nearly came right there - would have, if Greg hadn't reached down and tugged smartly at the base of his cock at the same time. John was left feeling lightheaded and strangely cheated, but more bloody turned on than he had ever been in his _life_.

Sherlock was a quick study, which shouldn't have been a surprise. It took all of a minute for Sherlock to learn what parts of John were the most sensitive, what made him buck and moan and writhe. Sherlock's hand slipped down to stroke everywhere while he sucked, gliding over John's inner thighs and his balls and his perineum, always slipping away just before it became too much, too intense. John was a panting, needy mess, and on some level he knew it, but seeing Greg and Sherlock get turned on by how fucking desperate he was only made him more fucking desperate. It was a bloody vicious cycle, and Greg and Sherlock both seemed perfectly content to milk it for all it was worth.

It was Greg who ended it. Sherlock was sucking particularly deep, taking most of John's length into that versatile mouth, and Greg chose that moment to pinch both John's nipples. Hard. John shouted and jackknifed, coming so forcefully he saw stars. He was distantly aware of Sherlock's lips sliding off him, replaced by his hand stroking lazily as John came, but all that was eclipsed by the brightness of John's orgasm and the lovely floating feeling which followed it.

When John recovered enough to actually care, he found himself spooned up on his bed between two warm bodies. Sherlock's long form was pressed up against his back, bony and angular, and Greg's more compact form was stretched out in front with his arse comfortably nestled against John's now-softened cock. John was afraid to speak - it felt like any noise at all would break whatever spell had been cast over the room.

It couldn't last, of course. Sherlock got twitchy - he was an utter failure at staying still, even at the best of times - and then the longer they stayed there, the more John became aware of the sticky residue of multiple orgasms making a thorough mess of the duvet and their three bodies. Eventually Sherlock sat up, crossed his legs akimbo, and frowned.

"There is more to it than that, isn't there?" He drummed his fingers on his pale knee. "I mean, this was significantly outside my previous experience, don't get me wrong, but -"

Greg snorted and pulled himself up to a sitting position with considerably less grace than Sherlock had. "Anal sex, you mean? Yeah, there's more, but John and I decided we'd save that for next time."

Sherlock's eyes flared with interest. "You're planning a next time." Then, suddenly, he looked away. "Just the two of you, or . . ."

"Don't be an idiot," John said. "Yes of course the three of us, and _Christ_ that was amazing. Free next weekend, Greg? Same time, same place?"

"I suppose I could be persuaded to open my schedule," the detective inspector said with a mock-thoughtful expression. "Not often I get to teach Sherlock anything."

Sherlock snorted. "You just wait - I've got a week to research. Wait and see."

John grinned. _Oh, yes. A horny, competitive Sherlock Holmes is definitely worth waiting for._


End file.
